


command me to be well

by alongthewatchtower



Series: let me give you my life [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Original Percival Graves, Credence's Terrible Self-Esteem, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Graves is Not a Nice Person, Grindelwald Who, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex Credence, M/M, Mary Lou is Responsible for Credence's Terrible Self-Esteem, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Power Imbalance, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:07:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8726692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: "Oh my dear boy," Mr. Graves says softly, and Credence squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to sob.Now Mr. Graves knows, he knows Credence is an abomination, he can scent it. Credence will never escape his life. He'll never get to be a part of Mr. Graves' wondrous, shining, magical world. He doesn't even try and brace himself for the slap, the shove, the hit, the revulsion that is surely coming.Strong hands take hold of his shoulders, and Credence's knees buckle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics set in the Fantastic Beasts universe. While NOT Grindelwald in disguise, Percival Graves is not a particularly nice person. 1920s attitudes and all the sexism, racism and period-typical homophobia that implies.
> 
> Heed the tags. You have been warned.

 

 

 

Credence Barebone makes his way down the crowded street, head down, ducking out of the way of the powerful, important people of the banking district, stepping around vendors and hawkers, careful to keep off the cleaner pavement where he doesn't belong. The winter wind should be chilling him to the bone, a strip of ice around the base of his skull where Ma took the razor and gave him a proper haircut - _no matter if it's uneven, it's certainly not going to hurt that sullen, ugly face, boy_ \- but he feels strangely warm, knows there's something wrong with him.

 

His welted hands shake as he clenches them by his sides, feeling the split skin on his left grow damp again with blood. Credence thinks he knows exactly what's wrong with him - _abomination, you are, I knew the moment I saw you that God had chosen me to make sure your freakish nature wouldn't be allowed to twist and warp the minds of good people -_ and it's all his own fault.

 

Gluttony is a sin - _I won't have you taking food out of the mouths of babes, Credence, even if they are common street rats -_ and Credence is guilty of it, his sharp cheekbones now less visible, as he eats his fill once a week with an alarming regularity, instead of just the twice-daily quarter-serve Ma allows him. He can't count how many times he has taken food from kind Mr. Graves, who asks for nothing but information in return for still-warm pastries, or tart fresh fruit, those few times he ushered Credence into an actual restaurant, making Credence's flyers disappear with a flick of his wand, watching indulgently as Credence gorged himself on hearty soups and stews, sending him home with a roll stuffed in his pocket. Mr. Graves, who just last week passed Credence a glowing ball of light, laughing delightedly when it dimmed but remained glowing. Mr. Graves, who could get in trouble for associating with Credence, who he says has a spark of latent magic but must be properly educated before he can enter Mr. Graves' world, who promises that one day soon, he will help Credence find a place to go so he can leave Ma, leave the Second Salemers without having to live on the street.

 

Ma has done her best to starve the devil out of Credence, but he's been feeding it for weeks and weeks now, a guilty thrill racing up his spine when he realises the jut of his hip bones isn't so sharp anymore, that there's a layer of something between his ribs and his skin. He'll never be beautiful, won't ever even be plain, but in the dark of the church, at night when he's curled up on his mattress, Credence imagines his pale, angular face rounding out a bit more, imagines that if he's not quite so ugly, Mr. Graves might smile at him more often, so he reaches gamely for everything Mr. Graves gives him.

 

It's all led him here, the way he's been feeling vaguely ill all week, praying it doesn't turn into a sickness that will keep him off the street, and away from meeting Mr. Graves. Credence woke early this morning, strangely flushed, and when he'd gone outside to use the privy at the end of the alley, when he'd ducked into the stinking, freezing room to make water, he hadn't felt cold. He felt - odd, and when he'd slowly reached down, ears straining to listen for anyone approaching, terrified of being caught, when he'd traced hesitant fingers down the line of his body to his forbidden place, he'd found blazing _heat_ , the seam of flesh between his cock and his ass hot and _open._

Terrified, he'd snatched his hand away from where his body was betraying him, where his wanton nature was finally making itself known. Ma had tried, Credence had prayed, and his inverted, freakish body had hidden his secret opening for half a decade past presentation age, allowing him to pass as Beta, an almost scentless, sexless, ugly, lanky Beta. But now his body was blooming open, and Credence shut his eyes tight, wishing he could close his mind the same against the knowledge that the tiny opening, barely big enough for the tip of his finger, would grow, leaking sin and begging to be touched, making Credence mindless with freakish lust.

 

He presses his lips together tightly as he walks quickly down the street, hoping if he moves fast enough, nobody will scent out his perversion, will drag him out of the street and into a dark alley, will use his traitorous body for the only thing it's good for now, will dump him at the door of a cathouse if he's lucky.

 

Credence is trying very hard not to think about what will happen once he meets Mr. Graves.

 

Mr. Graves, who has been so kind, who has fed him and healed him, who will undoubtedly be disgusted when he realises just who, just _what_  he's been feeding, just what he's been associated with, been kind to.

 

Credence is early, like he always is, and huddles miserably in the cold, bracing himself against the brick wall in the narrow alley, waiting. His coat is thin and his waistcoat old, but his body is betraying him again, and he feels sweat upon his brow, his skin clammy and warm.

 

Credence waits.

 

Mr. Graves arrives in a rush of warm air, and an intoxicating scent nearly bowls Credence over, his knees going weak, and to his horror, he shivers and _mewls,_ a high, desperate noise, his head dropping back to bare the smooth, unmarked skin of his throat.

 

"Oh my dear boy," Mr. Graves says softly, and Credence squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to sob.

 

Now Mr. Graves _knows_ , he knows Credence is an abomination, he can _scent_ it. Credence will never escape his life. He'll never get to be a part of Mr. Graves' wondrous, shining, _magical_  world. He doesn't even try and brace himself for the slap, the shove, the hit, the revulsion that is surely coming.

 

Strong hands take hold of his shoulders, and Credence's knees buckle.

 

"None of that, now," Mr. Graves says, voice still soft, and he's caught Credence's weight, is holding the ugly, lanky frame against the broad strength of his chest. Credence doesn't let himself take comfort in the powerful, reassuring Alpha scent from beneath the waistcoat he's pressed his face against - he doesn't deserve it. It's not for him.

 

There's the warm bump of flesh against the traitorous skin underneath Credence's ear, the place where his body is betraying his wanton, freakish, _invert_  nature.

 

" _Oh_ ," Mr. Graves says, and now Credence can't trust his own ears, because it sounds like there's something wondrous Mr. Graves' voice. There's an audible inhale as the man scents him again.

 

"You're trembling," Mr. Graves says, almost in surprise, and holds Credence up with one strong arm as he folds the flap of his coat around them both. "Hold on to me, there's a good boy," he says, and Credence curls his damaged hands around the hem of that waistcoat, careful to keep the open welt away from the fine fabric.

 

There's a twisting, squeezing feeling, and for a moment Credence thinks that Mr. Graves has taken pity on him, has held him close and set him free, forever -

 

But then the world shudders, and expands again, and Credence is suddenly somewhere warm, a sharp contrast to the biting wind of the street, still pressed up against Mr. Graves, who catches him again when he stumbles.

 

"There you go," Mr. Graves says, and backs him up until the backs of his knees hit something soft, pressing him down to sit on a lounge, the plush, expensive kind, covered in dark velvet, situating him so he's leaning back against the raised end. Credence reluctantly lets go of where his hands are clenched in Mr. Graves' clothing, and the man steps back. Credence doesn't look up,  but he can feel the hot gaze upon him.

 

"Credence."

 

He fights the shiver that tingles up his spine at his name being called in that deep, powerful voice.

 

"Look at me," Mr. Graves says, sitting down at the other end of the lounge.

 

It's a polite distance, because Mr. Graves is a gentleman and even though Credence is _different_ now, a fever crawling over his skin and a sin forming between his legs, his voice is calm, not a hint of disgust or revulsion.

 

"Please."

 

It's the _please_  that does it, that makes Credence dart a glance sideways, looking at the man from under his eyelashes.

 

"That's better," Mr. Graves says, "good boy." 

 

And _oh_ , the praise makes him flush even warmer.

 

"Credence, do you know what's happening to you?"

 

He bites down on a sob, darts his gaze back to where he's twining his fingers together in his lap. A soft touch on his hand makes him start, and Credence groans with the pleasure of not being in pain, the tingling of the skin on his palms as they heal.

 

"I need you to say it," Mr. Graves says.

 

"Presenting," Credence mutters, his voice coming out small and weak. There's a beat of silence, and Credence feels the need to add, to make sure Mr. Graves knows exactly what he is now. "'M an Omega. An invert."

 

"An inv-" Mr. Graves cuts himself off. "Damnit, I always forget how backwards the no-majs are. Credence."

 

He waits for Credence to look at him again.

 

"You are not a pervert," he says firmly, and Credence feels like weeping, because _yes he is_ , there's a hole blooming hot and open in his forbidden place to prove it -

 

"Your mother, for lack of a better term, was wrong about magic being evil, wasn't she?"

 

Credence sees the point the man is trying to make, but his mind just screams at him that it's different, _he's_ different.

 

"Or do you think I'm evil?"

 

Credence's head snaps up. "Never!" He says hotly.

 

Mr. Graves smiles, a slow, sly thing that spreads across his face, holding Credence's eyes, making him flush even warmer. And he's broiling in his coat now, but he doesn't dare remove it - Mr. Graves has been very kind so far, but it wouldn't do to get familiar.

 

"Then surely it is possible that this _gospel_  -" he spits the word, and Credence flinches at the disgust even though he's almost certain it's not aimed at him, "all the hateful preaching of the New Salemers, of a woman who calls herself your mother even as she beats you black and blue - surely it is possible that they are wrong too?"

 

Put like that, Credence thinks it almost makes sense.

 

"In my world, dear boy, there is no such thing as an invert."

 

Credence can't believe his ears.

 

"It's true," Mr. Graves says, smiling at his expression.

 

"Do you know what you smell like to me, Credence?"

 

Credence shakes his head, looking at his lap again. He would give anything not to hear Mr. Graves say his scent is repulsive - because it must be filling the room by now, and he can scent _himself_ , thick and cloying, desperation and need.

 

"You smell like mate."

 

Credence freezes.

 

A gentle hand at his chin turns his head towards the man next to him.

 

"You smell like home, like promise, a dozen things I didn't dare let myself wish for when I first saw you. There was something about you, Credence, even before I scented you today, that drew me to you, over and over. That made my heart warm to see you full and warm because I was providing for you."

 

Credence shudders at the words, a whole body trembling that's unlike anything he's ever felt before, a feeling that starts in the hot place between his legs and travels up his spine, that makes his legs want to part, makes him slump back against the lounge. His head lolls back, flashing his throat at Mr. Graves. He doesn't know whether this is really happening to him, to ugly little Credence Barebone, or whether he's having a fever-dream on Mr. Graves' very nice fainting couch.

 

"Do you know what's happening to your body, Credence?"

 

"'S opening up," he says, his words oddly slurred. "Gettin' ready."

 

"Ready for me," Mr. Graves says. "For I've no doubt it was my scent that has worked you up so, my dear. That made you present, after all this time."

 

"Sorry," Credence mutters. "I didn' mean to."

 

A dark chuckle. "Oh, don't apologise, my dear. For you are a grand prize indeed, and this is possibly the best thing that could ever have happened to you."

 

Mr. Graves sounds very far away, and Credence squirms, feeling uncomfortably damp between his legs, overheated in his clothes.

 

"I'm only going to ask this once, lovely, so do pay attention."

 

Credence makes an effort to sit up straight, looking attentively at the man next to him, hands clenched on his knees to keep himself upright.

 

"Who are you, Credence?"

 

Credence doesn't even have to think about it, despite the million responses he could give, all the miserable, hopeless little things he is -

 

"Omega," he says.

 

"Who am I?"

 

"Alpha," he says, and it's almost a purr, a tone he's never heard from his own voice before.

 

A beat,  moment that's tense with a kind of anticipation Credence can't place.

 

"And who else am I?" Mr. Graves is very close, his voice deep and low.

 

Credence shudders, his resolve to stay upright abruptly deserting him, and he flops back against the high back of the couch, languid and warm.

 

  
_"Mate,"_ he says.

 

Mr. Graves smiles. It's not a kind smile, not really, the toothy, dark grin of a predator who's just sighted prey. Credence shudders again, his legs twitching apart slightly in an unconscious movement. A strong hand on his knee draws one leg up to lie along the length of the couch, and Credence arches, brings his other leg up also, suddenly uncaring of his dirty shoes as he puts his foot flat on the couch. the position has his thighs spread wide, wantonly displaying the wet patch on his trousers.

 

The Alpha _pounces_.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Percival Graves looks at Credence and sees promise.

At first, Credence Barebone is just an easily manipulated, downtrodden, starved little nothing of a no-maj, a source of information keen for the barest hint of affection, a word that could possibly be praise if you interpreted it that way. The boy - and he is a boy, despite being twenty years old, half-starved and beaten, is attractive in his own way - Graves can picture those razor-sharp cheekbones with a healthy flush, those plush lips moist and smooth instead of blistered from the cold, that horrible haircut grown out, healed up and cared for, the boy lying with pale limbs akimbo on Graves’ fine sheets, pliant and willing, desperate for affection.

The boy becomes an invaluable source, keen eyes making detailed observations from beneath his eyelashes, and he’ll spill all he knows about the Second Salemers, the hawkers, the street folk, the criminal underworld, for the low, low price of a kind look, and, later, once Graves has dropped enough hints to a boy who desperately wants to believe he’s meant for something more - a soft touch and the healing of constant welts, bruises, places Mary Lou’s belt has drawn blood. Graves brings food to their regular-irregular meet ups, and on one occasion, a winter coat - secondhand, because Mary Lou Barebone would confiscate anything that didn’t look like it was charity - watches him try to hide his blush when Graves helps him into the coat and smoothes it over thin shoulders.

Out of nothing more than curiosity, Graves one day passed the boy a glow-ball, a child’s toy, and the thing hardly even dimmed, so he knows the boy is powerful. The thought of training that power, of moulding the boy, is intoxicating.

 

Then the day comes when Credence is waiting at their scheduled random-weekday meet up flushed, almost sweating in the winter wind even as he huddles against a wall - when Graves Apparates in, Credence slumps back against the wall, bares his throat, and emits a classic example of an omega’s first whine. He immediately flushes even harder, squeezing both eyes and mouth shut tight, bracing for a blow.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he says, pitching his voice low, stepping close and resting his hands on Credence’s trembling shoulders, just in time to catch the boy as his knees buckle. Graves takes his weight and holds him close. There’s a hint of presentation scent, the cusp of a first heat approaching, an omega’s first bloom, and something else. Frowning, Graves leans in closer, until he’s pressing his nose into the boy’s scent gland - _there._  Credence Barebone smells _delicious._  The boy is mate potential - potentially powerful, delightfully submissive, desperate for attention.

  
_Yes_ , he thinks absently, soothing the trembling figure before holding him closer and Apparating them home - and it will be home, for both of them, now. Graves works hard, works long hours as Director of Magical Security, as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. All that hard work deserves a reward, and what better prize than a young, biddable omega, one that he can mould into the perfect little spouse? And oh, Credence will be so _grateful_. Graves will kindly teach him all the ways he can possibly express that gratitude.

Credence sits rigid on the couch in the apartment’s small parlour - clenches his thighs together, grips his own hands tightly. He’s flushed with the fever of oncoming heat, and as Graves coaxes answers out of him, more slurred with each word as the fever fogs his mind, as Graves determines his sweet boy really has no idea what’s happening to him beyond Christian gospel and pitiful no-maj prejudices, the scent of blooming omega deepens in the small room. There will be time enough, later, to teach Credence his place in the world, exactly what’s expected of him now he’ll be by Graves’ side.

Credence’s response to simple praise and Graves naming him _mate_ betrays just how far the boy is gone - he’s in actual heat now, pre-heat no more, flushed with fever and baring his throat so prettily, head lolling back on the couch. He draws himself up when Graves tells him to pay attention, and oh, isn’t that a good little instinct right there, so determined to please, even as his body starts to shudder with need.

"Who are you, Credence?"

 

Graves’ voice is a deep rasp, and it makes the boy tremble in an anticipation he doesn’t quite understand.

 

"Omega," Credence answers.

 

"Who am I?"

"Alpha,” the boy purrs.

True, but Graves was looking for a little more.

"And who _else_ am I?"

 

Credence shudders at the sound of his voice, slumping back on the fainting couch, flushed and whining, legs twitching reflexively.

  
_"Mate,"_ the omega says, voice a high, needy whine.

Graves smiles, slips a hand underneath the knee closest to him and pulls Credence around to face him properly, yanking him flat along the lounge. The boy responds beautifully, arching and spreading his thighs wide, suddenly shameless in his need. It’s the work of a split-second to dive forward between those thighs, caging the boy in underneath his bulk, braced up on his forearms over the omega beneath him.

Credence is gorgeous like this, hips twitching upwards, rubbing himself desperately against the alpha above him, little whines caught at the back of his throat.

“Please,” he begs. “Please, Mr. Gra-"

 

“My name is Percival,” he corrects. “But you can call me Alpha, if you must."

 

Credence nods desperately. “Please, Alpha-"

  

“Please _what_ , my dear?” Graves would like to hear some more of that delightful begging. “What do you need?"

“Need _you_ ,” Credence says, and Graves can’t resist any longer, dips his head forward to plunder that gorgeous mouth. The boy underneath him gasps at the touch, his first kiss, and Graves licks his way into the boy’s sweet mouth, plundering the heavy, cloying taste of heat pheromones for himself. He’s been remarkably patient so far, but he can’t resist a gentle thrust of his hips, grinding his clothed cock against where he’s cradled in the apex of Credence’s thighs, provoking an instinctive reaction from the body beneath him as long legs clamp around him tightly. The omega moans into his kiss, suddenly desperate, his body knowing relief is close. Graves loses himself in the thought of that pretty mouth wrapped around his cock, and isn’t that a delicious thought - but one that will ultimately have to wait, he thinks regretfully, drawing back.

Credence makes a disappointed sound and tries to follow his mouth, petulant look on his face at Graves’ chuckle.

“I’m not mating you in the parlour, my dear,” he says, almost fond. “Put your arms around my neck."

The boy does as instructed, and when Graves gathers his weight close and stands, Credence squirms against him, rubbing his damp trousers on the bulge in Graves’ own.

“Behave,” Graves says, and his tone is mild but Credence responds beautifully, stilling instantly, resting his head against his alpha’s chest and letting himself be carried easily. Graves makes his way through the apartment to the master bedroom, a muttered _scourgify_  under his breath as he goes. The hateful no-maj woman only allowed Credence to bathe once a week, and Graves wants that lovely pale skin to be _clean_  when he unwraps his omega. The sconces in the bedroom flare to life as he steps over the threshold, bathing the whole room in a warm glow. 

 

Graves deposits his omega on the edge of the large, high four-poster bed, and the boy looks around him in wonder, no guile at all as he eyes the intricate tapestry above the roaring fireplace, the plush carpet, traces curious fingers over the embroidery on the burgundy coverlet, reaches out to touch the carved post at the corner of the bed. He bends obligingly when Graves moves him this way and that, drawing up one leg and then the other so he can divest the boy of his shoes. His gifted coat, worn and patched now, is laid carefully aside, but Graves banishes the waistcoat underneath. Credence watches his trembling body being undressed with curiosity, pupils blown wide. Heat rolls off him like a furnace, sweat at his brow. 

  

Graves traces gentle fingertips over each inch of skin revealed as he unbuttons the boy’s shirt, scrapes a nail over the hard little nub of a nipple, making the omega arch and whine. When the shirt is thrown aside and the horrid undershirt banished as well, Graves can see how thin Credence really is, the damage his skin wears. The scarring on the boy’s back edges around one hip, the legacy of Mary Lou Barebone’s care. Graves touches it lightly, kissing the boy gently when he makes an embarrassed little sound.

“Don’t worry, my darling,” he says. “We’ll fix that right up. You don’t deserve those scars, and you won’t wear them forever.” As the boy sags in relief, he adds, “The only marks you’ll wear from now on are the ones I give you,” and the thin body trembles. “But I promise, I’ll never make marks with this-“ a silent banishing charm, and the boy’s hated belt disappears, “when I mark you, you’ll enjoy it."

 

“Pants off,” Graves instructs, stepping back to divest himself of his own waistcoat, watching as Credence hurries to obey, forcing shaky, heat-drunk limbs to work as he unbuttons his trousers, lifts his hips so he can shove his pants and underwear down in one jerky go. The rush of heat-scent makes Graves harden further in his trousers. He palms himself absently, watching as Credence licks his lips unconsciously at the movement.

  

The omega yelps as he’s moved up the bed with a wave of Graves’ hand, sprawled inelegantly against the pillows as the coverlet pulls back to the foot of the bed, leaving miles of beautiful milk-white skin to glow with the contrast to dark sheets. It’s almost exactly the way Graves pictured it in his mind, though his boy is still scarred and too-thin and sporting that uneven haircut - there’s time enough to fix all that. For now, he lets himself enjoy the way the flush spreads down that pale chest, the way Credence twitches but doesn’t move, doesn’t try to cover himself. His alpha has put him in this position, so he stays, legs spread, the smooth, vulnerable places between his thighs shining with slick, small omega cock flushed ruddy and full against the boy’s concave stomach.

 

“So good for me,” Graves praises, and that delightful blush goes all the way to the boy’s navel. Credence clenches his fists in an effort not to move, but he’s soon planted his feet flat on the bed, writhing in need. The fever must be unbearable now, and the boy is arching his hips up in little motions, body searching for relief. But the omega is truly untouched and innocent, likely scared that way by the New Salem Philanthropic Society and their endless sermons - not once does his hand twitch toward his cock, does he touch the place where he’s hot and wanting.

  

“Show me that pretty hole, my darling,” he says. “Give me something to look at."

Credence blushes furiously, shy, sheltered nature making itself known, but this far into his first heat the boy is a slave to his body’s desires, and he obeys instantly, parting his thighs wide, giving Graves his first look at the flesh between his balls and his ass, that delightful little seam that’s now blooming open, candy-pink little cunt flushed and swollen, slick and wanting.

“Oh, now that’s just beautiful."

Credence gives a reflexive shake of his head.

“Credence,” Graves says sternly, watching his biddable young omega flinch at the tone. He’ll be so easy, this one. “Who am I?"

“Alpha,” Credence repeats quietly, looking contrite.

“And if I say your gorgeous little cunt is _beautiful_ , then what is it?"

“Beautiful,” he mutters.

 

“That it is,” he says, planting a knee on the bed so he can move to sit between the omega’s spread thighs. 

 

There’s something delightfully sinful about the picture the two of them make, Graves still dressed in shirt and trousers, Credence wearing nothing but his own slick. Graves feels like nothing more than a wolf about to devour its prey, the possessive alpha in him predatory in anticipation.

 

The first touch of a single finger against the plump little lips of Credence’s pussy provokes a sharp inhalation from the boy beneath his hand.

 

“So sensitive,” Graves marvels, tracing his finger up one side of the slick guardian pucker and down the other, watching it twitch under his touch, the way Credence tenses in an effort not to move. Because he hasn’t been told to - oh, his boy _is_  well behaved.

 

Graves teases that hungry little cunt with the tip of one finger, unsurprised when Credence clenches around the digit as if trying to draw him in. “Soon, sweet boy,” he says. “You’ll get what you need, don’t worry."

 

Credence flails and arches beneath him at the introduction of two fingertips, the shallow insertion driving the omega further into frustrated lust, so close but yet so far. But the movement draws Graves’ attention to other places, and he presses the boy down flat with his clean hand. His two wet fingers come away dripping with slick, and Graves taps them on Credence’s lips, which are tightly pressed together.

 

“Open up,” he instructs, and Credence obeys. “Suck,” he says, and the boy does so, blushing, eyes widening as the taste of his own slick hits his tongue - Graves can tell when he starts to get drunk off his own pheromones, as the sucking becomes more and more insistent, less inhibited. When Graves takes his fingers away, Credence mewls after them, bereft.

 

With a grin, Graves traces his wet fingers over first one nipple and then the other, revelling in the boy’s surprised gasp at the pleasure of a sudden pinch, the way Graves ducks down to bite. He doesn’t draw his mouth away until both are reddened and oversensitive, Credence letting out constant needy whines. Graves looks down at him in satisfaction.

 

“Do you like it when I suck on your tits, sweet boy?"

 

Credence nods.

 

“I can’t hear you."

 

“Yes, Alpha."

 

“Yes, Alpha….?”

 

“Yes, Alpha, I - I like it _whenyousuckonmytits_.” Oh, his omega is so easily led.

  

“Good boy."

 

He moves backward, stepping off the bed, and Credence scrambles to sit up, a hand thrown out as if to stop him. Graves would growl - if he wants to leave his omega wanting then that’s his damn prerogative, but the boy is deep in his first ever heat, and the though of his alpha leaving him at this point would be absolutely terrifying for any omega, let alone one as beautifully needy and dependent as Credence.

 

“Shh,” Graves soothes. “I’m not going far. Just a little too dressed for what happens next."

 

Credence blushes again as he catches on, settling back against the pillows. He watches with hungry eyes as Graves unbuttons his shirt slowly, removing it and then his undershirt. There’s a hesitant intake of breath when Graves’ hands go to his belt buckle, but he throws it aside casually, and then Credence’s eyes are glued to where he’s unbuttoning his trousers, belt forgotten. It’s the work of mere moments to kick off his shoes and stockings and step out of his trousers, to watch with a predatory grin the way Credence’s eyes widen and his legs give a reflexive twitch closer together at the sight of Graves’ alpha cock, full and dark, standing straight against his belly. He thumbs idly over the wetness at the head of his dick, and when he moves toward the bed again, he rubs that same thumb over Credence’s pretty lips.

 

The omega’s eyes widen, and his tongue darts out to lick up the mess. Graves doesn’t particularly care whether his omega likes the taste of his cock or not - he’ll get used to it - but it _is_  satisfying to watch his eyes practically roll back in his head at his first taste of pre-come.

 

“On your belly, omega,” he says, voice low and gruff with anticipation. “Show me that pretty cunt again, and maybe I’ll give you what you need."

 

Credence rushes to obey, as if there was ever a chance Graves would walk away from his prize at this point. He rolls to his belly, and stills for a moment before getting his knees underneath him in what has to be an instinctual movement, because Graves very much doubts Credence actually knows what breeding position is.

 

But that  _is_ beautiful presentation, omega with ass in the air, flushed face pressed against the sheets, back in full arch, hips flexing to raise the cunt higher to entice an alpha in.

 

“Very good,” he praises, his hand on Credence’s ass feeling the way the words made him shudder. Graves kneels behind the omega, taking himself in hand and rubbing the flushed head of his cock against that swollen pink pussy, teasing the hole again and again. Credence’s cunt tries in vain to clench down and pull him inside -

 

“Please, Alpha, please,” his omega is whining, hands clenched in the sheets, holding very still.

 

“Please what?” Oh, Graves never claimed to be a _nice_  man.

 

“Please - please _fuck_  me, Alpha,” and his voice cracks on the word _fuck_.

 

“Hmmm,” Graves says, pushing the head of his cock inside that slick heat only to pull it out again and then repeat the movement. “You want me to fuck you? To cunt you properly, to show you what it means to be omega, to knot you full and bite down and claim you as mine forever?"

 

“ _Yes_.” Credence is crying, now, the very picture of a desperate omega in heat - in his _first_  heat, nobody else has seen Credence like this, and nobody ever will, this delight belongs entirely to one Percival Graves and his knot.

 

“Very well, my sweet boy,” Graves says, mock-casual, and pushes in.

 

The change in the omega is immediate - he sighs in relief, even as Graves’ cock is still pushing through the slight resistance of a virgin cunt. Graves keeps his movement steady, until he’s balls deep in one continuous thrust. He stills there, waiting until overstretched muscles start to squeeze around him in desperation before barking out a laugh and pulling out, only to repeat the slow, steady movement. He goes no faster for those first few thrusts, but pushes harder as the glide becomes easier, fucking a space of his own into Credence, as if he’s moulding the boy to his cock and changing him forever.

 

  
_“Oh_ ,” Credence says, sounding adorably overwhelmed by sensation. Graves speeds up, fucking the omega faster now, the slick squelching of omega cunt in heat and the slap of skin against skin filling the bedroom.  _“Oh!_ "

 

Graves finds that Credence’s torso is thin enough that when he rests his palms on the back beneath him and wraps his hands around the sides of the boy’s chest, moving the omega bodily into his thrusts, his fingertips touch the tormented little peaks of Credence’s tits. It’s the work of only a moment to adjust his grip, never pausing in the relentless movement of fucking his way in and out of the formerly virgin pussy, pinching those puffy nipples between the sides of his index and middle fingers, using them as leverage to thrust even faster.

 

“Doesn’t that feel good?” Graves asks, watching with a smirk as Credence nods quickly, non-vocal as he’s caught between the pleasure of his cunt and the tingling, oversensitive pain in his chest. “Omegas who behave get to feel good,” he tells the boy beneath him. “They get fucked through their heats by their generous, bonded alphas. Are you an omega who behaves, Credence?"

 

More frantic nodding.

 

“Of course you are. My - my beautiful boy,” Graves says, panting now, feeling himself get closer and closer to completion. “My omega. Forever."

  

Graves gets an arm properly underneath the boy’s torso and lifts, pulling the omega upright, slamming Credence down further on his growing knot. Credence whines, a high, desperate note of pleasure, his body still chasing something he doesn’t quite understand. The new position means Graves can wrap the span of his hand around that gorgeous throat, can hold him still and use the grip to get better leverage, and the omega moans, body begging for a bite. 

 

“Shhh,” Graves soothes, even as his movements become brutally fast, as hard as his hips can manage. “It’s alright, my darling. Here it comes.” He’s giving the boy a kind warning he suspects the omega is now too gone to understand, feeling his knot swell, thrusting in and out once, twice, three times before having to force the growing knot in one final time, slamming home and feeling the guardian muscle of Credence’s cunt clench around him. It’s the signal for him to turn Credence’s head to the side, to lean down and run his teeth across the omega’s scent gland, to open his jaw and bite down hard, tying them together irrevocably, bonding them forever. The boy cries out beneath him, the scent of useless omega spend filling the air as his cock erupts, untouched.

 

Credence goes limp as Graves removes his teeth and licks over the bloody imprint of his bite, the only tense part of the omega's body the repeated twitch-twitch-clench of his cunt as the muscle works Graves’ knot, locking it inside and milking out his alpha’s release. They’re both breathing hard, Credence’s head turned to the side, eyes wide open but unseeing, panting his pleasure.

 

“There, my sweet boy,” Graves says, manoeuvring them both so Credence can lie flat on his torso, ass high in the air where they’re locked together, bracing himself on his forearms so they lie with his chest pressed to the boy’s back. He’s covering the boy almost completely, sheltering him with his body while the omega is vulnerable, nosing in to drop chaste kisses on the back of his neck, noting with satisfaction the omega’s blissful state, the way he scents as newly bonded, smelling of pleasure and an overwhelming happiness.

 

They lie there together and slowly catch their breath, Credence seemingly coming back to himself, his hole clenching in surprise as the heat fades enough for him to register his alpha still locked inside him, the fever cut short by precise application of alpha come.

 

“We’re - we’re bonded now?"

 

“Forever, my darling,” he confirms, and there’s the salty-wet smell of tears as the enormity of that hits Credence. Graves would be annoyed, except he can still scent the omega’s happiness, can see the bashful smile Credence tries to hide in the pillow beneath his head.

 

When, after a good twenty minutes or so, Graves pulls out, he sits back on his heels and takes a moment to study the mess he’s made of Credence’s cunt - now red and swollen, plump little lips thoroughly ravished. As he watches, the omega’s guardian muscle twitches, flexing as if trying to close - and it’ll tighten up again by the morning but for now, fresh from its first fucking, Credence’s little pussy clenches and winks at him, trying to keep Graves’ copious spend inside.

 

Credence is quiet, pliable, settles easily at Graves’ side, cuddles close when Graves encourages him to lay his head on the alpha’s chest. Tomorrow, there’ll be time to teach the boy the joys of a long, hot bath, and all the activities that can be done within, time to outfit his omega in clothing befitting the bond of Percival Graves, to perhaps send for one of the heirloom, traditional chokers in his Lockstock vault that would look so pretty around Credence’s neck, time enough once he owls for bonding-leave and takes the rest of the week off.

 

“Sleep, sweet boy,” he says, carding his fingers through Credence’s sweat-damp hair. “Tomorrow is a brand new day."


End file.
